


Caliban

by RandomBattlecry



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 12:27:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3410603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RandomBattlecry/pseuds/RandomBattlecry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Clara is sleeping, the Doctor gives no thought at all to his cover story. Mostly because he's busy being afraid of what she'll say when she wakes up. A bit of Whouffaldi fluff/angst, at the end of <i>Mummy on the Orient Express</i>, that glorious shipper's manifesto of an episode.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caliban

He says his goodbyes while she’s sleeping. Well, one goodbye. For the rest, it’s more of a drop-and-run sort of thing; he drags them out by their ankles or their wrists or, in one instance, one wrist and one ankle. Humans are hilarious when they’re asleep. Their faces. All scrunched up and murmury. Does he look like that when asleep, he wonders? No, of course not, he’d never look so ridiculous. He bumps their heads over the threshold of the TARDIS as they leave, one by one, but gently.

When he comes back for Clara, it’s to find that Perkins has woken up and is staring at the ceiling.

“Hello,” says the Doctor, guardedly.

“We’re alive, then,” says Perkins, but he doesn’t sound as though he really believes it.

“Yes?” says the Doctor, which isn’t helpful. Perkins struggles into a sitting position, and looks about him at the console room.

“It’s bigger on the inside,” says the Doctor, to make up for being unhelpful earlier.

“Quaint,” says Perkins, and the Doctor scowls.

“Yes, well, if you’d like to be on your way, I’m sure there are far more fascinating vehicles for you to be investigating. You’re out of a job, after all.”

“Bit touchy,” Perkins comments, running his fingers along the grating at his side.

“We haven’t gone anywhere yet.”

“I meant you.”

The Doctor huffs at him, and advances towards him, flapping his hands to motion the man upwards. “Never mind me, don’t even bother with gratitude, you’ll find the door just there.”

“Oh yeah?” Perkins loops an arm over the railing but makes no move to get up. “I suppose you and the missus are eager to move on, then. Had enough of exploding trains, I expect.” He jerks his chin at Clara. She sleeps curled up on the leather armchair where the Doctor has placed her. Perkins rubs a hand over his face, catching sideways glances at the console. He’s more intrigued than he wants to seem, the Doctor thinks, watching him.

He hesitates a moment, deliberating, then makes up his mind.

“Like to see her in action?” he says, springing to the console. “The TARDIS, that is, not Clara. You’ve already seen Clara. Everything short of slapping someone, that is.” He pulls a lever. “We’ll go to a beach. There’s one not far, if I’m not mistaken.”

He isn’t mistaken. Perkins stares wide-eyed as the TARDIS stirs, enlivens, lifts herself and moves herself and moves them with her, folding time and space as neatly as origami, as precisely as birds in flight. When she alights, settles herself into a functional relationship with reality again, Perkins wobbles to his feet and moves to look out the door. The shore beyond the threshold is barren, mostly rocks, little sand. Quiet. Perkins steps back.

“I, er,” he says, “don’t suppose I could have a look round before I go?”

The Doctor sweeps his arm out to indicate the stairs leading down. “Be my guest.”

Perkins manages not to rub his hands together, but only just. “Right, then. I won’t be long, I’ll just—” He doesn’t know what he’ll just. He breaks off, and nods up at Clara again. “I’ll just— step out of your way. Wake her gently, eh?” he says, and gives a broad wink.

The Doctor watches him down the stairs, and turns to Clara. She doesn’t look quite as funny as the rest of them, asleep— peaceful, more like, though her face scrunches up a little, enough to make him wonder what she’s dreaming. If she’s dreaming. More than likely. Perhaps she’s dreaming about PE, the Doctor thinks, aiming for a dispassionate contemplation of the possibility and arriving only a mildly jealous stab at the thought. Perhaps she’s dreaming of being saved, instead, he consoles himself, and does not think of what she is being saved from.

He moves towards her, up the stairs, and hovers over her. When she wakes up, he tells himself, she will leave. When she wakes up—

This, then— this is the goodbye he does not want to say. The one he will not say; not when she can hear him, anyway. He could take her home, now, and drop her sleeping into her bed, and leave before she awakes. Maybe she’d think it was all a dream.

He wants her to look at him, speak to him, but he doesn’t want her to wake up, and he doesn’t want her to say goodbye.

There’s a clinking sound, below him, as Perkins unhinges a hatch. The Doctor chews the inside of his cheek for a moment, then scoops Clara up in both arms, pulling her against him so her head rests on the inside of his shoulder. He carries her carefully down the stairs, maneuvers her briefly to snatch two tartan blankets from the stack the TARDIS has helpfully provided that very moment, and takes her outside. Out to the beach, out to the barren shore. If he settles her to the left, the TARDIS will hide the looming bulk of the distant city, and she will think, when she awakes, that they are alone on an alien shore.

He settles her to the right, instead.

A little cove of sand, in amongst the rocks. He puts a blanket down for her, puts her down on the blanket. The breeze is cool, and her dress is thin; he tucks her in under the second blanket, and stops for a moment, on his knees at her side. He hesitates, and his fingers find a lock of her hair without him quite realizing it.

“Won’t say it,” he tells her, defiantly.

She says nothing, doesn’t even nestle further into the blankets, doesn’t even murmur, doesn’t even snore.

He twitches at her hair.

_Wake up, Clara._

He smooths it.

_Don’t wake up, Clara._

He bends, hovers, moves closer, brushes his lips awkwardly over her brow, once more over her eyelids— enough of a goodbye. Enough to be getting on with. He springs to his feet, taking a stick with him.

 _I didn’t say it!!_ he writes in the sand, and scuffs it out with his foot.

“I don’t want you to go, Clara,” he says aloud. “But if you, if you absolutely must, I’m glad. That we did it properly. One last— ”

 _Goodb_ — is as far as he gets, writing with the stick, before he kicks sand over it violently. _Don’t wake up, Clara._

_Don’t go, Clara._

_Clara._

She can hear him writing her name, he thinks. Or she’s dreaming. Or she could feel his mouth on her. Or, this is sleep, for Clara, this is how Sleeping Clara looks: like peace, and calm, like sun on lashes. Like wind, and time, and love.


End file.
